


Garden

by twitchtipthegnawer



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Pathfinder (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Animal Death, BDSM, Blood and Gore, Child Abuse, Childbirth, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/F, Infection, Physical Abuse, Prostitution, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-05-19 05:05:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19350070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twitchtipthegnawer/pseuds/twitchtipthegnawer
Summary: Trees in the fall were Mitya’s favorite. Their leaves matched her hair, and turned the landscape into a smokeless fire she could almost feel the warmth of. And then, when they fell, she could almost feel the trepidation in the bare branches left behind. Would they survive until spring? They had no way to know for sure, and soon they would be asleep, and whatever sentience they had would no longer be able to worry.This is the story of dancing without music, and how one woman broke her own heart.





	1. Sibilant

**Author's Note:**

> Heya everybody! Since this is an as-yet unrevealed/undiscussed backstory for the campaign I'm currently playing with my friends, they're all banned from reading it. I don't trust them not to metagame. If you're reading this and you shouldn't be, you know who you are, and I'm very disappointed in you.
> 
> If you're just a random person on the internet, I welcome you to read and comment/critique as your heart desires! Please, _please_ read the tags, though. Mitya is lawful evil for a reason, and while she doesn't perceive her actions as "bad," there are a lot of possible triggers in this story.

Silphium’s shop always smelled divine, filled as it was with herbs hanging from the ceiling. They were in various states of drying, and left the air with a delicate, green scent that Mitya couldn’t help but breathe in deeply as she opened the door. The bell above it jingled, quiet but still noticeable in the near silence of the wooden shop, and Silphium appeared from behind a colorful blue curtain over the back doorway.

Smile breaking over her face, Silphium held her arms out for a generous hug. “Mitya, it’s been too long,” she said.

“It has,” Mitya agreed. When she leaned down to return the dwarf’s gesture of affection, Silphium’s white-blonde beard crackled against her chest.

They separated with an ease borne of years of knowing one another. “Any news?” Silphium asked, though the sympathy in her orange eyes said she knew the answer.

“No,” Mitya confirmed anyway.

“Best come into the back for some tea, then. I have a lot to tell you about.”

Mitya was happy to do so, and looked around with interest at the framed anatomy sketches on the walls. A few were new, but many she recognized from when she’d first helped Silphium move into the place. Most featured women in varying stages of pregnancy, or infants belonging to any of the races.

The back room was cleaner, ironically, with most things tucked away in the floor to ceiling drawers. A kettle already sat on the range, steaming lightly, a step away from whistling. Or, as Mitya always thought of it,  _ screaming. _ Silphium picked it up in her delicate hands, carried it over to the low table, and set it down on a circle of knitted yarn. “Could you get the cups?” She asked. “Cupboard D-3.”

Quickly, a pair of cups of Tian Xia make were put in place, and Mitya was enjoying a green tea with hints of honey. It warmed her fingertips, which seemed perpetually cold despite long sleeves and temperate weather outdoors. Silphium settled across from her, the two of them sipping in silence for a moment.

Eventually Mitya said, “So, what did you want to say?”

“Well,” Silphium took a deep breath in through her nose; a telltale sign that she had a lot to say. “I delivered a set of tiefling triplets last week. The mother - and father, supposedly - were perfectly human, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen such protective fire as I did in her eyes when I handed them over. Bright red, demonic children, all of them, and yet she was the threatening one. Her side carries the abyssal blood, I’d bet money on it.”

“Interesting. Did the horns cause any trouble?”

“Oh some, some. But piercings have nearly no long term effects when compared to the slits many ‘ _ doctors’  _ use, especially if you’re watching out for them.”

“I see.”

Polite sips, a slow unwinding of tension in her shoulders. Mitya might have to bribe Silphium into another massage again soon.

“How has dancing been?”

“Much the same. Venues are few and far between, these days. I find myself dancing in the streets more and more often, but it does pay better than you might expect.”

“Does it? Does that mean I needn’t call on you for complicated cases, then?”

“Oh, you know how I feel about childbirth,” Mitya’s eyes glittered as she spoke. “There is no higher honor than being allowed to witness it.”

Silphium’s jaw clenched. “Unless the mother risks death.”

Inclining her head, Mitya acknowledged the truth of that.

“I had another of the Drake’s girls in here, last month,” Silphium segued with extraordinary, false casualness. “He still has that bad habit of denying them tea, even after all this time. I always find it hard to charge those girls.”

“Worst thing I ever did for your business,” Mitya nodded. “You’ve told me.”

“She wondered why she hadn’t seen you, lately. You make quite the spectacle.”

“I suppose I do.” Looking down, Mitya took in her dress. White feathers and white fabric by the yard, pooled in a beautiful waterfall down her legs. Hugging her arms, her throat.

“Why are you still avoiding them, Mitya?”

At once Mitya’s eyes snapped to Silphium’s, blue and wide and alarmed in a way they very rarely were. Silphium had reached out, releasing the teacup in favor of holding onto Mitya’s hand. Warm on warm on warm. Mitya fought the urge to clench her hand on her cup, but even so the tea iced over, green filigree in spirals of frost. It was beautiful, like everything Mitya created was beautiful.

Like Larkspur had been beautiful.

\---♥---

Mitya’s first memory was of pain.

She awoke in a wood, just outside a rather small town in Varisia. She was gasping, clutching at her sternum, where between her heaving breasts there lay a large, raw wound. It was a starburst, jagged-edged and deep enough to glisten with throbbing muscle in the gaps between her fingers. Her nails dug in, spastic and panicked, shredding the inflamed edges further.

Maybe hours passed before she was found. Maybe it was only minutes. Mitya had no frame of reference, no corner of her mind sane enough to watch the sky, or the growing shadows of the trees. All she could focus on was the pain, and the raven sitting beside her. Not helping, nor hurting, just watching. Ghostly blue, a color which even then struck her as  _ wrong. _

Luck was on her side when, against all odds, it was a kindly dwarven woman who found her. Her naked body was quickly bundled into a blanket, her wound dressed and treated. She fell asleep with the taste of a mild broth in her mouth, and the sight of a halo of golden hair falling down around her, veiling her from the world. “Rest,” said the woman, a voice rough from decades of pain. “Rest now, little one.”

As would become commonplace in the years that would follow, Mitya had a dream that she would not remember.

“Batya,” she said. In the dream she was small, her red hair tumbling in curls far longer than it now was, all the way to her heels. “Can you dance for me again?”

Her batya was younger than he should be, Mitya knew even then. But she didn’t question it because she loved him, and the strength he used to lift her onto his shoulders even though he was barely larger than she was. She loved his blond hair and how she could spike it up when he bathed her. And she loved his dancing.

“Why don’t you dance with me?” He asked, smile crinkling his dark eyes.

Frowning, Mitya looked down at her feet, encased in rabbit-fur slippers. “But I am not as good as you are.”

“That’s why you need to practice,” he reminded her. “I made you, and so you are capable of beautiful dancing. I know it.”

“Of course, you are right, Batya.”

Unfortunately she couldn’t dance with her feet on his, small as they both were. He took her hand in his, rested his other on her tiny, round waist. And then they  _ spun. _

Dancing was fire, and dancing was ice. Dancing sent Mitya’s hair in a fan outwards of vivid crimson, the color of blood, of rubies, of corpse lotus flowers. Batya’s feet were so light it was almost like Mitya was flying; there was no possible way she could trip or stumble so long as he kept ahold of her. He hop-skipped backwards, clearing large distances and landing so lightly on his feet that he didn’t disturb a single twig. Behind him he trailed Mitya like a paper kite, brightly colored and giggling with delight.

Some days it was not so much fun, but that night, that dream, Mitya only remembered the one shining moment.

Always, however, it was  _ magical. _

“Hush,” said an unfamiliar voice. “You gave us quite a fright, little one.”

When she woke up, Mitya was surprised to find that the person calling her  _ little  _ was an elderly dwarf woman. Silver streaked her blonde locks like precious metals braided together, and her orange eyes were surrounded by thickly-packed lines that gave her a perpetual, tired look. Her clothing was in good repair, but not particularly luxurious.

What was most striking, however, was that she was missing her left arm at the shoulder.

“Where am I?” Mitya croaked, then coughed when it irritated her sore throat.

One gentle hand cradled her cheek. “Here, drink this.” A thin, blown glass straw was placed against her lips, and Mitya sucked down crisp, clean water greedily. “There’s a good girl, you just about screamed your throat inside out. I know the feeling, dear.”

After a couple of sips, Mitya’s stomach was churning, so she forced herself to take a break. “Where am I?” She repeated, much more understandable this time.

“Ashwood,” the woman said. “It’s a small town in Varisia. Do you know what Varisia is?”

“Yes,” said Mitya, though she frowned. She couldn’t remember  _ why  _ she knew what Varisia was.

“My name is Hawthorn Stendahl. I’m a healer here. What’s your name?”

And now, Mitya felt doubt creep in. “Mitya. I’m Mitya.” But was she? Hawthorn had two names, and Mitya only the one. No family to call her own, except, except… The doubt laid roots in her mind, fissures of darkness through which she could see nothing at all. It grew, even when she met Hawthorn’s daughter, Silphium, who was young enough that her beard was barely stubble on her cheeks.

Even when Hawthorn said, “You poor thing. Who could have left you out there, like that?”

“I do not think it was a bad thing,” Mitya replied.

Hawthorn stared at her, speechless. Silphium sniffed and then rubbed her nose. “What the hell does that mean?” She asked.

“The pain was very great, but it will heal, won’t it?”

“Of course,” Hawthorn answered.

“Then there is nothing so terrible about it.”

Conviction became one of the cornerstones which kept Mitya anchored when the tatters of her mind threatened to shred under the weight of all those roots. When her raven landed on her shoulder, for instance, and Silphium shuddered at it trying to preen her hair. “It’s creepy,” she said. “Normal ravens don’t just  _ stare  _ like that. They play and yell and hop.”

Magic came so naturally to Mitya, and yet she had no idea  _ where _ that magic came from. She had a familiar, but it did not often speak to her, and when it did it didn’t seem interested in making sure she  _ understood.  _ Just spat disjointed phrases and expected petting which it wouldn’t lean into, simply sit statue-still under. She must have made some kind of contract, or agreement, and the fact that she couldn’t recall, well. Of course it was unpleasant.

But that magic could be used to make beautiful things, and so she grew to wield it more and more comfortably. She stroked her starburst scar, and thought about survival, and pain, and pretty things. And for years that was enough.

Larkspur had a habit of ruining  _ everything. _


	2. Scarification

They first met in the streets of Tempestra, one of the larger city-states of Varisia, to the west of Ashwood. Mitya had helped Silphium move into her new shop, and was now exploring the city, having been shooed away for the organization portion of the unpacking.

Roasted nuts filled the air with a delectable scent, which Mitya followed to a stall covered by a bright red cloth awning. The seller hawked little packages in oil-paper wrappings, both candied with honey and salted. As she lined up, Mitya caught sight of an elven woman carefully pulling a single nut from the cluster she held and lifting it to her lips.

Clearly, she had been beaten badly, and recently: one of her eyes was swelled shut and dark purple with bruising, her upper lip was fat with blood and had a barely-clotted split, and her hand shook when she set the food on her tongue.

More than any other person Mitya could remember seeing, she was beautiful.

Her hair was the deepest of browns, but glinted with copper where the sunlight hit it just right. It had been impeccably braided up in a series of complicated rosettes around the crown of her head, culminating in a voluminous bun which hinted that her hair would be much longer than Mitya’s (now brushing her shoulders lightly). Her skin was darkly tanned, speckled with freckles like the pattern of shadow under lush leaf cover, and her  _ eyes. _

Green.  _ Deep  _ green,  _ piercing  _ green. Mitya felt stuck, impaled almost. Right through her chest.

“Hello,” she said, nearly stumbling over her skirt hem in her rush to get to the stranger. How unlike her, to be so clumsy, but she couldn’t bring herself to be embarrassed. “I am Mitya. What is your name?”

Flinching backwards, the elf looked at her with those eyes so wide Mitya could see a pale white ring all around them. It only made their vibrant color pop more, and then, when she realized Mitya’s outstretched hand was only there to shake, and not to strike, she smiled. One of her cheeks had a dimple.

“Larkspur,” she whispered.

Their first day together, Mitya didn’t touch Larkspur. She could take the hint, when Larkspur refused to take her hand, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t tempted. She  _ longed  _ for the inflamed skin of Larkspur’s dark bruising, she saw those split lips behind her eyelids when she closed them. To kiss Larkspur, lick the clotting away and taste her blood, it would be  _ divine. _

Instead they talked. Larkspur, despite the low volume of her voice, had a veritable waterfall of words waiting to burst forth, like the first ice melt of spring.

“I’ve seen you dancing before,” she said, while Mitya sheepishly led her back into the line. “You’re wonderful. What style is it?”

It was hard to focus on anything with Larkspur so close - did she smell amazing, or was that the scent of the nuts overwhelming everything? “Ah, I. Er, I do not know. I have lost many memories from my childhood.”

“That’s terrible,” Larkspur gasped.

“Not really,” Mitya replied, waving her hand. “But I have not seen you, watching me. And you are so striking that I find that hard to believe.”

A light flush tinted Larkspur’s cheeks deeper. “I was at work. I doubt you would’ve seen me through the windows.”

_ This  _ was a clue. Mitya hadn’t danced in too many places in the city yet; she’d moved in only a week before Silphium. As she filed it away, the line moved forward, and then Mitya was forced to order her food. Afterwards, however, instead of taking a bite, she turned to Larkspur and asked, “You would not like to forget your childhood?”

“Oh, never,” Larkspur replied. “I grew up in Arsemeril. Have you ever been there? No, I suppose you wouldn’t have.” She didn’t pause to give Mitya a chance to answer, though she guessed correctly as to what it would be. “My mother and father were a very old couple, and were so delighted to have a daughter. The entire city is filled with and surrounded by trees, nothing like here, though you can still see the sea. If you’ve never seen the ocean of green leaves on one side and deep water on the other, then you’ve not yet been blessed with true beauty.”

_ No,  _ Mitya wanted to argue.  _ Just the sound of your voice has blessed me with that already. _

Walking down roads Mitya didn’t know well yet, it became abundantly obvious that she would be happy to get lost if it meant a few more minutes for Larkspur to tell her the way. There was a barely-there lilt to her words, an accent hidden under the soft tone that Mitya wanted to learn so well she could recall it in her dreams.

“Don’t mistake my words, there are things I love about Tempestra also. I never got to see too much of our ruling family in Arsemeril - but here! The king is kind and strong and so often appears to give addresses. He seems to love the prince dearly, too, and his wife was so beautiful the one time I saw her. Of course I hardly moved to Tempestra for the royal family, but they are certainly a positive part of living here.”

“Hmm,” said Mitya.

“In a city such as this, there are so many  _ mysteries.  _ You couldn’t do anything in Arsemeril without the trees whispering to some druid about it. Here, there are nooks and crannies of stone where people hide, or make illicit dealings. I know it isn’t, ah, typical, but I so wanted to solve those mysteries.”

“Wanted?”

“Well,” here, Larkspur reached up to touch one of her ears. It was pierced, Mitya noticed, but held no earring. “It’s less easy to make money doing what one loves than I expected.”

“Understandable. Much as I love dancing, I make more money sewing.”

“You sew?” Larkspur’s smile, like her eyes when she was afraid, was so  _ white.  _ Like a tree with bark stripped away, like bones laid bare by hungry beetles. “Did you make the dress you’re wearing right now?”

“Yes,” looking down at it, Mitya was suddenly painfully aware of its flaws. The hem was fraying at the bottom, there was a stain at one sleeve, it was a mess -

“It’s beautiful. Could you make me one? Oh, but the price, something so lovely must be worth so much more than I could afford.”

Shaking her head, Mitya had to physically grab one wrist with the other to keep from catching Larkspur’s hand (luckily, she’d finished her nuts quite a while ago). “You could afford it. That is, what price would work for you?”

While Mitya wasn’t overjoyed to talk shop with Larkspur, the opportunity to ask her to go to Mitya’s house for a fitting was  _ perfect _ . Mitya’s heart was fluttering when she laid down to sleep, and it took her a long time to close her eyes against the gentle silver-blue of the moonlight.

Nightmares stalked her, of course, because how could they not after such a waking dream?

Batya was sitting back in a chair made of ice. Greenery was trapped inside, refracting into a million pieces that made the leaves appear four-dimensional. Soon, they would rot and turn brown, but for now they were as lovely as the boy sitting on them. One of his elbows was braced on the other forearm, his fingertips lightly brushing his bottom lip in thought.

In front of him, Mitya was dancing, and it was not beautiful. It was not like when Batya danced with her, and she felt exuberant and elegant. It was not like when Batya danced  _ for _ her, either. He was controlled and practiced, creating patterns with his body that felt ancient and preordained and miraculously new all at once. Inimitable.

Nor was this anything like what Mitya got up to when she simply felt full of energy with nowhere to go. That was explosive and wild, and often consisted of nothing more sophisticated than running in circles until she fell down, dizzy. Then she would stand on wobbly legs and jump, jump,  _ jump _ until her fingertips could brush whatever tree branch her eyes landed on.

No, this was unlike any of that, but it wasn't unfamiliar. In fact, it was quite common.

“Don’t forget to point your toes when you kick,” Batya said. “Again.”

Sweat dripped from Mitya’s forehead into her eyes, despite the cold weather. No matter how much it stung she refused to wipe it away. That might break her rhythm.

Returning to starting position, Mitya looked at the ground. Her feet had cleared an area down to packed earth. Blood was beginning to soak into it.

Up tilted her chin; breathe in. Onto the points of her toes, then breathe out, then stretch one arm before her and the other behind.

Lean forward. Slowly, not letting the rise and fall of breath affect her in the slightest. Further, and further, until her fingertips brushed the dirt.

And  _ jump. _

High enough to give her the time to flutter her feet, and to correct her balance so that she could land with one foot down and the other still in the air. Her hands were above her head now, fingertips just barely touching and arms forming a circle, but there was no time to rest, she had to jump again. And again.

This time she knew it was no fault of her own that caused her ankle to roll. It was simply a matter of too many hours, too small limbs, too hungry belly. She landed in a heap, a cry on her lips even as she smiled, just a bit.

“Better,” said Batya. Just as she’d known he would.

She forced herself into a sitting position, breath huffing in and out of her lungs so fast that it stung in her throat. Tiredly, she pulled off her soft shoes, which were now soaked through with red. Leaves crunched as Batya made his way over to her.

All of the toenails on her left foot were bruised underneath, and three of the ones on her right. Her pinky toe was actually turning  _ black,  _ and Mitya touched it gently. The shock of pain it sent through her made her spine straighten involuntarily. Worse, however, was the way the toenail wiggled even under that light pressure. Biting the inside of her cheek, Mitya pinched it between pointer and thumb, and pulled.

With a sticky sound and string of flesh, it peeled away. She tossed it aside without worrying, since Batya could heal it easily, and it would grow back regardless. More fascinating was the gash that had opened across her shin, without her even noticing.

He noticed her staring at it, and her batya touched the gash gently. It hadn’t bled much in the cold, but it was remarkably deep. “What a good girl. I thought you were ignoring the pain, but you barely felt it, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Batya.”

Stroking her leg, he said, “This happened when you fell on your fourth try. I didn’t tell you to stop dancing, and so, you didn’t. That was the right choice.” One of his fingers pressed into the hot, wet crevice. Aches lanced up and down Mitya’s leg. “Your first injury while dancing. It’s a testament to your dedication. Would you like to keep it?”

Once again, she said, “Yes, Batya.”

Smiles cracked both their faces wide. Mitya didn’t know it, but others would find it grotesque. Both were sincere, and that was what mattered to her. Even when Batya made a fire, let it burn a few sticks to ash, and then quenched it with a clutch of his fist. Even when those ashes cooled, and he began to pack them into Mitya’s wound.

When she awoke this time, it was her heart that ached, though she wasn’t sure why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read the last chapter <3 If you have any thoughts on the fic, don't hesitate to hit me up on twitter @twitchingcorpse! So long as you're over 18, of course.


	3. Sanguine

Ashwood was a beautiful place to grow up in (even if Mitya seemed to have skipped the first half of that process). Hawthorn kept a lush garden, which the surrounding wildlife never ate. She told Mitya her secret one day, while she was still recovering and couldn’t venture out too far. “Do you see the purple flowers at the edge, there?”

The flowers formed a cone of tiny blossoms, black in the center and vibrant violet at the edges. They stood on singular stalks thrusting straight up from the ground. “Yes,” Mitya said.

“They’re nightshade. The deer know better than to eat them, because they’re poisonous.”

Predictably, Mitya wandered closer to them to inspect the leaves. “Is everything in your garden poisonous? Is that why Silphium doesn’t help with it?”

“Silphium doesn’t help because she hasn’t learned proper patience yet.” This answer perplexed Mitya, given that Silphium was already prone to long silences and watchful positions on the sidelines, but she didn’t argue. “And nearly everything, yes. So don’t go eating any of it.”

“Why? Do you sell poisons?”

“So curious,” chuckled Hawthorn. She blew a lock of silver and gold out of her eyes, then pet her braided and beaded beard. She got some dirt in it; Mitya didn’t comment on that, either. “No, I don’t. I’m retired, kiddo, but I never much liked poisons to begin with.”

Now Mitya had no choice but to wear her confusion on her sleeve - not literally, of course. Hawthorn had given her soft clothes, which fit around her shoulders and hips just fine but stopped short at her knees and ribs. She didn’t dislike the style, though it left her feeling cold and tempted to lounge in the sun near constantly. The earthy tones were hardly her most flattering option either.

“Oh, child. Gardens don’t have to serve a purpose, you know. They can be beautiful just because it makes life a little more worth living.”

Inspecting the plants more closely, Mitya decided she agreed with Hawthorn. But wasn’t something  _ more  _ beautiful, elevated even, if it had a function in addition to being nice to look at? She wasn’t sure, but the sun crept lower, and Hawthorn retreated indoors to cook dinner. Silphium would be coming back soon, and Mitya would be expected to come in before her pallid skin burned red as her hair.

Still, she promised herself five more minutes. Then five more minutes. Then ten, and the sun was setting already.

Though she wasn’t sure what she was looking for, she found it eventually. A red fox lying on its side, drool slicking its fur all down the front. Its eyes were wide, breath erratic, pupils dilated.

Poisoned, clearly, though she thought it was more likely that it had eaten a mouse or something which had previously consumed the flowers, rather than the nightshade itself.

“What’re you doing?”

Mitya wheeled around, though the voice was already becoming familiar. Silphium rested her chin on the low picket fence around her mother’s yard, bored expression on her face. “I found a fox,” Mitya explained. “I think it’s dying.”

“Downside to a garden of poison,” Silphium replied with a shrug. “Why do you care? I thought suffering was no big deal to you.”

“But,” Mitya frowned. Turning back to the creature, she poked at its swollen belly. It  _ yipped  _ in pain. “It’s dying.”

Footsteps crunches closer to her. Silphium squatted down, looked between Mitya and the fox a few times, and then sighed. “Mom won’t let you bring it inside. Give me a minute, I’ll bring out some charcoal.”

Somehow Mitya already knew charcoal could treat poisoning. She nodded, and kept watch over the suffering creature until Silphium returned. Her friend refused to shove her hand in a fox’s filthy mouth, so Mitya found she was the one prying its jaw open, digging a thumb in to keep the sharp teeth from biting down. Shoving the charcoal down its throat was easy compared to having to massage its neck until it finally swallowed and stopped trying to spit out life-saving treatment. Ungrateful thing.

Within a few days, it had changed its tune. Mitya kept it sheltered in a little shed on Hawthorn’s property, made it a nest out of scraps of fabric. More importantly, she suspected, she fed it broth and leftover pieces of meat every day, and it slowly got stronger. It became rather bold, snapping the trailing end right out of her hand each time.

Once, it caught her forearm, right by her wrist. Mitya didn’t think before sending cold down to the fingertips of her other hand, swirls of air turning white and then whisping away when she swung her arm upwards. She caught it in the ribs, frosting the fur in a spiral for the brief moment before it released her with another of its  _ yips. _

Both of them retreated to the corners of the room, panting, Mitya clutching her arm and the fox curled around its injured side protectively. Its teeth were bared, more startled than furious, though the ears tilting backwards made the little thing as ferocious as it could be. Slowly, Mitya smiled, and then she started laughing.

“You’re going to get an infection,” Hawthorn fussed, when Mitya came into her house with an arm still dripping blood.

“The fox licked it clean,” Mitya replied.

Snorting, Silphium propped her elbow on the kitchen table, and then her chin on the heel of her hand. That table was covered in tiles, which themselves featured her handprints from several years of childhood. Hawthorn’s personal version of the prototypical door frame covered in scratches. “The licking will make it worse, not better.”

“If it scars, I won’t mind.”

“You hardly need to  _ add  _ to the collection you’ve got going,” Silphium gestured with her spoon to Mitya’s sternum.

“A little more caution, please?” Hawthorn cut in. “If not for your sake, then for mine. You’re going to eat through my stores at this rate.”

Concession only made sense, on that point. So Mitya began keeping her distance from the fox, refusing to feed it by hand even when it tried to crawl into her lap at one point. This became easier to remember when a fever hit her like a horse’s hoof to the face.

“Told you so,” Silphium griped, wiping at her brow. “Can’t believe I’m missing my apprenticeship for this.”

“Who… are you apprenticed… to?” Mitya tried to sit up, only to be pushed back to the bed. For the third time.

“Someone in town you haven’t met yet. She’s a midwife.”

“You will be… a healer.” Mitya smiled, as she’d already realized she liked the idea of that. “Like your mother is.”

“My mother,” Silpuium said, covering Mitya’s eyes with her damp rag. “Was a killer.”

Much as that brought more questions to Mitya’s mind, she realized Silphium was hardly in a mood to answer any. Instead Mitya closed her eyes, turning blackness into blackness, and tried to sleep. The pain throbbed in her arm insistently. An indeterminate amount of time later, sleep still had not found her, and a knock sounded on the door.

Squealing sounded as Silphium scooted her chair away from the bed, and if Mitya hadn’t already been awake, she definitely would’ve been after that. “Hello?” Silphium called, her footsteps stomping towards the door.

“It’s Camphor,” someone said, muffled, through the solid wood. “You called me over?”

“Oh, Camphor,” Mitya sighed. “He is handsome.”

Snorts, and then a creak, and then muttered conversation. “Mitya, are you okay if Camphor looks after your sorry ass for a bit? I really should be at my apprenticeship.”

“It is fine. It is all fine.”

“Little loopy from the medication, huh?”

“Trust me, she’s this weird all the time. Tradeoff in a couple hours?”

“Don’t rush on my account.”

This time when the chair was pushed back in, it was quieter. The blanket tucked around Mitya’s sides was adjusted a bit, and then her injured arm was gingerly lifted. “Hey, Silphium!” Camphor shouted in his hot-chocolate voice, low and smooth. “She need her dressings changed?”

“Might as well. There’s been a lotta discharge though, fair warning.”

“Ain’t nothing I haven’t seen on the farm before.” Twinges went through her when she heard the cloth rustle, and then a wave of heated pain when the cloth got stuck. Had the door shut yet? Had SIlphium left? Camphor whistled, saying, “Should probably wet this first. It’s glued on there good with all the blood ‘n such.”

All Mitya could muster in response was a hum. The fever had her shivering again, until eventually the warmed compress over her eyes slid off. Camphor didn’t replace it, perhaps because he was preoccupied with her arm and didn’t notice. Slowly, his ministrations revealed the crescent of deceptively small puncture wounds, now weeping puss and stinking like heated iron. The inflammation was bad, puffing up one whole side of her arm, but there was no sign of the red veins which she knew might spell her death.

Whistling again, Camphor said, “Sure is bad. What bit you, then?”

“Fox I… rescued.”

“Rescue a lot of animals, then?”

“You’re just… fishing. Because I’m new.”

They’d met only a couple of days prior, in fact. Some people would’ve likely been mortified at their second impression being of a clumsy animal lover with no regard for their own safety. Mitya, however, thought that Camphor might understand, being a farmhand who’d had more than his fair share of scrapes himself, and who had made a strong impression with his polite flirting right off the bat.

“Got me there,” he chuckled. Leaning over her, she got a blurry look at his face. His smile was crooked; a gnarled scar kept one side of his lips permanently downturned in a snarl, but his brown eyes were warm, and his stubble rather handsome. “Pretty lady like you shows up out of nowhere, ‘course a fella’s gonna be curious. And it ain’t like the Stehndals can use the ‘distant cousin’ excuse neither.”

“Got me there,” Mitya repeated, which had Camphor laughing so hard he had to set her arm down in order not to jostle it. Slowly, she explained her situation to him, figuring she had nothing to hide. After a while he quietened down, and dutifully spread a poultice over her wound while he listened.

“Well ain’t that just the damndest thing,” he said when she was done. He didn’t say much more, after that, not anything of substance anyway. Just talked about farming and horses and cows and how the former couldn’t be left with the latter for too long without getting ideas about what was and wasn’t okay to start biting.

As it turned out, this was the perfect lullaby for Mitya’s sickbed, and when next she opened her eyes it was in a dream.

Batya was there, and they were in a forest, and Mitya was a child. Life was good. She smiled.


	4. Sadomasochism

Tempestra had been a whim, more than anything. Close enough to Ashwood that Mitya could still visit the Stehndal family. Far enough to give her independence, urban enough to expand her horizons, different enough to teach her new things. About herself, and about the world.

Camphor getting married had nothing to do with it. She’d told both Hawthorn and Silphium, and Hawthorn had smiled and said, “Of course, dear,” in that way mothers did when they didn’t believe a word of what you said. Silphium, though, had nodded slowly. Mitya thought of her almost as a sister, and hoped she understood.

Only once had Mitya and Camphor slept together. It had been awkward, and though Mitya had enjoyed it after she’d talked Camphor into slapping her on a whim, she didn’t particularly want to do it a second time. Lying there, afterwards, Camphor’s house smelling lightly of manure and come and the straw in his mattress, she’d worried he would want a relationship with her.

Instead, he had said, “You weren’t built for dating, were you?”

She’d startled, and turned her head to find him smiling far too sadly for someone who’d just orgasmed. And that… was odd. Because she knew it wasn’t  _ right.  _ She knew this was something that was supposed to bring people joy. And yet something about it had become twisted up in her head, the  _ purpose  _ of it and the  _ beauty,  _ and she wasn’t. She didn’t.

Feel guilty. Should she?

Roots growing throughout winter, while the rest of the tree appeared to be dead to all and sundry passerby.

Now she felt not the slightest bit of guilt. Surely Tempestra must’ve been a fated choice, to have brought her to Larkspur.

_ Meant for dating.  _ She had agreed with him, at the time, and never once disagreed since. But now, she couldn’t help but hope.

Inviting Larkspur to her home had been a nerve-wracking experience. Mitya never cared to keep it clean, as a general rule, even when she had the occasional client who wanted to come to her place for measurements. Sewing wasn’t her preferred job, after all, just a way to pay for food, and her small apartment was hardly a storefront. But of course Larkspur was an exception to every rule Mitya had ever unknowingly set for herself.

Still, when the knock on her door came, Mitya’s room was filled with knicknacks. Mostly shoved onto over-crowded shelves amongst books and teas and tiny animal bones (which was better than scattered over the floor), but filled nonetheless. She had to swallow her pride before she pulled the pewter handle open.

“Hello,” she said, breathlessly.

“Hello Mitya,” said Larkspur. “It’s wonderful to see you again.”

_ You are wonderful,  _ Mitya carefully didn’t say.

Larkspur’s black eye had yellowed, and the swelling had gone down. All that was left of her fat lip was the tiniest sliver of red flesh where her scab must have recently come off. Still, she was the loveliest vision Mitya could’ve imagined. Her hair was braided down her back today, braids braided into braids until Mitya wasn’t sure she could track where one plait ended and another began without the help of touch, and to touch Larkspur’s hair felt far too presumptuous.

There were delicate little flowers tucked into those dark locks, too. Silver-white and wrought of some metal Mitya thought must surely have been expensive. They matched the sleeveless, cream dress Larkspur had worn, almost the same color as Mitya’s customary garb. She hoped it wasn’t a coincidence, even as she knew pale colors were simply the most practical in the summer weather.

“Where should I stand?” Larkspur asked, turning in a circle to take in more of the room.

Chewing her bottom lip, Mitya said, “In the middle is fine. Do you, um. Want me to estimate to remove the measurements added by your dress, or would you be comfortable removing it?”

Whatever response Mitya expected, it certainly  _ wasn’t _ a coy, “Forward, aren’t you?”

“I, ah, er.”

“Forgive me, my job doesn’t allow for much bashfulness.” Larkspur reached for the clasp at the nape of her neck, then paused. “Are you uncomfortable? It is rather warm in here.”

With the window shut, it was no wonder the room had heated. Also, Mitya thought just having Larkspur there was making her sweat a bit, however. “Do you ask because of my long sleeves?”

“And the high collar,” Larkspur nodded.

“I made it out of a special fabric, so it brings the moisture away from my skin. Would you like to feel it?”

Gods, but that was a stupid question. Larkspur agreed, and Mitya’s worries about her being grossed out by the sweat were quickly overwhelmed by the gentle drag of her fingertips across the thin material. It left a trail of goosebumps Mitya was glad she couldn’t see.

“That’s marvelous. Is it magical?”

“If it is, it is beyond me. The fabric was a gift.”

Gentle,  _ so  _ gentle that it almost tickled, Larkspur’s nails caught the inside of Mitya’s forearm, over a long-closed scar. “I love it.”

“Th-thank you,” said Mitya. It was followed by a hurriedly cleared throat.

After that Larkspur stepped away, which was both a disappointment and a relief. She undid the clasp, allowing the cream to pool around her legs like a waterfall of milk, one whose trail Mitya wanted to follow with her tongue - she  _ needed  _ to calm down, or else she’d embarrass the both of them. Larkspur’s underwear was as ornate as her outerwear, lacy and shiny enough that Mitya thought it might be silk.

More bruises revealed themselves, as well. Yellow and green and mottled, like lichens growing on the rich bark of her skin. Some had resolved themselves into distinct hand or boot prints.

“Right, well. Would you hold your arms out at your sides, please?”

Taking measurements was an easy enough thing to do, even distracted as Mitya was. She managed to keep herself from prodding those bruises or sneaking a touch to Larkspur’s chest, or soft belly, or delicate waist. Armspan and height and neck width and rib circumference. Mitya filed it all away, kept notes just in case, even though she thought it doubtful she’d forget.

Most of the work was done by the time Larkspur spoke again. “You never mention my bruises. You don’t even stare at them.”

“Why would I?” Mitya said, afraid she’d been found out.

“Everyone does.” Larkspur laced her hands in front of her. Though Mitya was now kneeling by her feet to measure the distance from hip to foot, she didn’t look directly at her. “They… judge me for them.”

Perturbed, Mitya thought on this. She didn’t want to give an answer that was dismissive, because it sounded like this mattered to Larkspur, but… she didn’t understand, either. And then something occurred to her which had her hand flying to her throat.

“Before I got this fabric,” she said. “I still covered myself, even in summer.”

She turned her back on Larkspur and undid the hidden buttons on the front of the dress. She heard, “What do you - oh!” As Larkspur finally braved a glance away from her brown fingers.

Scars, Mitya knew, were not unusual. Whether they were from battles like Hawthorn’s arm had been, or from simple accidents like Camphor’s, anyone who did not have ready access to a highly trained healer could expect to accumulate quite a few over the course of their life. Mitya, however, had what Silphium had once described as, “Enough of a collection to start a store.”

Hardly an inch of her skin was untouched. Most of them were meager things, meer shimmers in any light dimmer than noon sun, but they were there nonetheless. And of course there were the standouts: the thick and raised slash up the length of her shin, the starburst which had brought her to Hawthorn, the curve of tooth marks from her ill-fated fox. Worst, however, was the one that had convinced her to cover them once and for all.

“Were you captured by slavers?” Larkspur’s delicate voice shook, wind forced to a standstill, the barest shiver of a leaf.

Touching her throat once again, Mitya felt the keloid scar tissue push back against her. “I told you, I do not remember my childhood.”

Certainly, that was what Hawthorn had thought, when she’d found her in the woods. And it was what made her offer Mitya thick ribbons to wear as chokers, and what made her caution Mitya about moving to the city. Slavery might not be legal in Tempestra, but that didn’t mean it didn’t happen. Best not draw that kind of attention if she couldn’t help it. And so, even though Mitya didn’t dislike the scars, she hid them.

“To judge based on injuries seems… absurd, to me,” said Mitya, and she knew Larkspur believed her. Still, she pulled her dress back over her shoulders, not wanting to give Larkspur a view of herself fully topless just yet.

“Thank you,” Larkspur murmured. “For trusting me with that.”

“Thank you for granting me the honor of making you a dress,” Mitya replied, and when she smiled over her shoulder, she thought she saw a tear shining on Larkspur’s freckled cheek. It was prettier than any bruise she had ever let her see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> halfway through!! if someone would be so kind as to comment... i would be SUPER happy to implement a whisper system in my comments? Just add _(whisper)_ to your comment if you don't want me to reply, otherwise i promise to thank you all for any feedback you give <3


	5. Somnambulist

Midnight, and Mitya was laying in bed, her eyes shut tightly. Her raven sat on the wide windowsill, the night air blowing the curtains over her like pale wraiths. Watching. Waiting.

Mitya dreamed.

She was older than Batya, now. Taller than him. She’d grown faster than she should have, and cut short the years which were meant to be purest. Most beautiful. He was displeased.

Summer burned hot around them. She wished for the weeks past, for spring blossoms struggling against crunchy, frosted ground, but she also knew time could not be moved backwards. The birds had hatched. The world had thawed. The trees had woken up again. This, too, was part of the beauty of things, and she needed only to find her place in it once more.

But how? Things had been so simple when she was younger, and introspection was not Mitya’s favorite endeavor. So instead, she practiced a dance. Away from Batya, and therefore away from any help he might provide, any guidance. She would make something beautiful of her own, perhaps, or she would just jump and try to touch a branch. It didn’t matter, when she was alone in a forest which no other human had walked.

Begin sitting on the ground, her feet to the sides of her hips, legs bent into two V’s. Slowly, she rose, onto her knees, swaying to the music of the animals moving around her. They feared her no more than they might any other plant that belonged in the woods.

Dancing was beautiful for the sake of being beautiful. It didn’t grant her power, the way it might do some bards. Batya had said someday, it would, but for now it was simply something which looked lovely. It didn’t serve a purpose. Mitya found herself drawn to pretty things that were also useful, like edible flowers, but perhaps she had led herself astray.

Higher, now, her spine arching until the crown of her head hit the leaf litter and she was balanced on the balls of her feet. She got her elbows under her, flexed and made it onto her hands, then went with the momentum until she was on her feet, finally standing upright.

Thoughts found their way to her with the rhythm of the movements, though they weren’t always sensible, or poignant. Some were just,  _ I hope Batya brings sugar when he finds me next,  _ or  _ tonight I would like to sleep where I can hear running water.  _ Most amounted to nothing more than an  _ ow  _ and a pointed move to brush a pebble from her path before her next step.

Every once in a while, however, something stuck.

They built with each new  _ ow,  _ with a splinter in her heel and then the meat of her thumb. With a spin that accidentally scraped her against a tree, and with the stubbornness that kept her going through the movement. With the sting of blood and bruise that she was so familiar with.

Her batya said she was beautiful because she was  _ of him.  _ But her beauty could change, could wane or wax like the moon. If aging had made her wane…

Did dancing make her wax? If so,  _ why? _

Not purpose, then what? Not purpose.

Not purpose. Pulling off her toenail.

Not purpose. Frost in her fingers.

Not purpose.

She sewed because she had to wear clothes. She danced because…

Not purpose.

_ Pain. _

It struck her like lightning. How ironic it would’ve been, if lightning really had reached her at that moment, but the world wasn’t quite so cruel, nor so kind. It left her standing stock still but for the huffing of her breath, overtime, trying to cool herself off from the movement which had become frantic at the end.

What was she to  _ do  _ with the conviction, now that she had it? Mitya was young yet, but she already knew something about pleasing those who adored pain, because so much of her time was spent trying to please  _ herself. _ And she had plenty of supplies, a knife, a glass bottle, a wire of thin metal.

Knife, bottle, wire. She skipped her hand along the three, laid out in front of her.

_ Wire, _ she thought,  _ would be best. _ Wrapping it around the knuckles of one hand, she looped it over her neck, and then secured the end in her other hand.

Dying would be completely counterproductive. She only wanted to  _ hurt. _

That was how Batya found her. Lying on her side, choking on the pain and a little bit on the blood, but was it because she had nicked her esophagus? She didn’t think so, perhaps she had bitten her tongue in the moment when she’d pulled the wire taught. Gods but it hurt, it  _ hurt,  _ an instinctual pain. Something deep in her hindbrain screaming that she could  _ die, die, die! _

It was  _ wonderful. _

“Well, shit,” said Batya, a sign he was truly shocked; he hardly ever swore. “Mitya, what have you done to yourself?”

“Made myself… beautiful.” She coughed, a spray of bright rubies against the brown leaves. “Gave myself a… collar. For you.” Her hands lifted, towards her batya, like when she’d been little and asked to be carried. “Is it not pretty?”

“Oh, darling,” he fell to his knees, and cradled her blood and tear streaked cheeks in his palms. “You are  _ always  _ beautiful.”

_ Snapping  _ awake, Mitya dug both her hands into her hair and tugged. Harder and harder. Why could she never remember these things? They were important, she  _ knew  _ they were, and the fact that they always slipped away was just. So. Frustrating.

On the windowsill, her raven cawed, “Winters past! Winters past!” Or was it ‘winter’s passed?’ Mitya didn’t know, and it only sharpened her temper.

“What do you want? It is the end of spring, you ridiculous thing, of course winter has passed.”

“Winters past,” it cawed again. “Foxes ran.”

It hopped and fluttered over to land on her knee, a weight too light for the sheer size of the creature. Hollow bones and hollow feathers. Mitya scrunched her eyes shut, two hard blinks that got some of the grit out, and then she forced herself to swing her legs over the side of the rickety bed frame. The raven flew up to a shelf and repeated, “Winters past, foxes ran!”

Annoyance washed away her weariness. “I heard you the first time.” She stood, her nightgown hanging loose around her, and said. “You want to show me something? Lead the way.”

They ghosted through the streets of Tempestra, the hour so early the only people out of their houses were not the sort to stare, if only because they did not wish stares to be directed their way as well. Her raven always took her in strange directions, through alleyways that sometimes dead-ended and forced her to climb brick walls. As the crow flies, after all, was more than just a saying, and it seemed indignant that she couldn’t move as it did.

Eventually they came to one of the exterior gates, with a man asleep in his chainmail sitting beside it. Mitya padded past him, then off the edge of the cobblestones. Twigs and pebbles felt strangely familiar on her feet, though she couldn’t imagine why. Onward she followed the spectral raven, pale feathers standing out against the purple-black darkness.

Trees obscured it as it pulled further away from her, and then further, and further. Mitya was just about to shout after it to slow down, or else break into a run at last, when a sudden  _ crack  _ to her right made her freeze. She turned her head, one foot still raised mid-step, sure it was some great beast come to take a bite of her.

Instead, she found a fox.

Pride was far away from Mitya, when she fell to the conviction that was her permafrost, her stonelayer. She easily went to her knees and held her arms out, heart in her scarred throat, and let mud stain her skirts. She didn’t  _ know  _ if it was the same fox, it had been years since she’d last seen that creature, but silver streaked its muzzle and she had a  _ feeling. _ As a dancer, feelings were so often all she had to go on.

Sure enough, it went to her. Its steps were hesitant, with a slight limp to one of the back legs that hadn’t been there before. Above her there was a rustling, and she had no doubt that her raven had landed on a branch and was watching them closely, but she didn’t look away from the beautiful golden eyes glued to her.

Fur brushed her fingertips, and then the fox leaned in and nuzzled her palm. She’d never named it, that fox. Camphor had taken to offering options whenever he visited:  _ Baby _ or  _ Daisy _ or  _ Darwin.  _ Sometimes Silphium had joined in with  _ “Bracyn, pronounced like Jason but with a Br.” _ Each and every one Mitya had brushed off with a chuckle.

Now, she was glad of it.

Perhaps in the morning she would feel bad for the way she held its muzzle closed in one hand. In the moment, she only wanted that  _ pain. _

Relief from her dreams, from Larkspur’s accidental torment. So many days they’d spent together, and Mitya wasn’t sure where they stood, but when they’d kissed she’d  _ bitten. _

Biting now, Mitya drew quite a bit more blood.

Dying was a waste.  _ Killing  _ was a waste. But control, like pride, was blotted out by those omnipresent roots.

Dawn found her with blood slicking all down her front, fur caught in her teeth. Her nails had viscera crusted under them, and the stench of sickly-sweet death had begun to set in. The ends of her hair were matting together with sweat and tears and more blood, always more blood. Mitya wasn’t sure where her hair ended and the fox’s fur began, and when she forced herself to drop the carcass, it pulled and hurt before it came free.

Wasteful Mitya. Childish Mitya, even after all this time. Guilt ate at her belly in a way no hunger ever could, but still, she wasn’t satisfied.

Because Larkspur preyed on her thoughts, and even walking back through Tempestra with power in her veins and the fearful side glances of passers-by couldn’t blot  _ her  _ out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey every1 i'm turnt on anxiety meds who wants to talk DUNGEONS and DRAGONS.
> 
> mitya would be disappointed (which is generally a good sign).


	6. Scintillation

The Willow Switch was, even by red light district standards, a shady location. This was in part literal, given the black paint covering the wooden structure and the black fabric hanging heavy over its entrances, and it was entirely intentional. Madame Whin had not chosen the name of her establishment without thought to its meaning.

Since she had stumbled upon it on her first visit to Tempestra, Mitya had loved the place. Some of her reasons were less than proper, but Silphium was hardly precious about sex, given her chosen profession, so she’d only raised one eyebrow when her almost-sister had begun to wax poetic about a brothel.

That night she walked in, and a woman in a corset, heeled boots, and not much else smiled behind the counter. “Is that a dancer I see? Darling, it’s been too long.”

“Honeysuckle, my apologies,” Mitya halfway bowed, then took the offered hand to give it a kiss on the knuckles. “Have you been well?”

“Always,” Honeysuckle purred. That wasn’t her real name, of course, but Mitya didn’t dig into the affairs of the Willow Switch’s employees. “You?”

Wryly, Mitya said, “I will be better shortly.”

Honeysuckle cuffed Mitya over the head, and it was far from gentle. A shiver went down her spine. “All business, really? You incorrigible little thing, at least indulge me for a minute.”

“Sorry, sorry.”

Their chatter didn’t last long, however. Despite her grandstanding, Honeysuckle didn’t know Mitya outside the boundaries of her job any more than Mitya knew her name. “So what’re you in the mood for tonight, sweetling?”

Men would eliminate the chance of Mitya calling out the wrong name at the wrong time, but what were prostitutes for, if not discretion? Or, perhaps a lack of judgement was more accurate. “A woman, please. Domming.”

“If only I weren’t trapped up front tonight,” Honeysuckle leafed through the ledger in front of her. “Same level as always, I suppose?”

“Of course.” As if Mitya had any interest in something which did  _ not  _ involve pain. Especially tonight, of all nights; the day of waiting, of cleaning herself over and over again and still being able to smell the fox on her hands, had been agony enough to require agony to end it.

“Mmm,” Honeysuckle hummed absentmindedly as she went to Mitya’s tab, then she paused and her full lips parted on a surprised exhale.

“What is it?” Mitya asked, when Honeysuckle didn’t move for a minute.

“I didn’t think we offered rewards to frequent customers, but you’re just full of exceptions, aren’t you?” Mitya tilted her head, not understanding, and Honeysuckle waved dismissively. “Don’t worry about it sweetling. Head on up the stairs, now, and don’t stop until you’ve reached the top.” Nodding, Mitya obeyed.

Plush carpet rustled lightly under her as she went, up and up and up. The walls had intermittent silver sconces dripping with red, glass beading, and when she brushed them they made beautiful, subtle music. She’d never been in the top room before, and found herself curious what might be waiting for her there. Was it one of the women she’d already become acquainted with, or did they have someone new?

She opened the door, unsure what to expect. The room held a huge, round bed, with a gauzy canopy hanging around it. There was an X-shaped cross on one side of it, and hanging implements of torment and pleasure on the opposite wall. Everything seemed to be black, red, and silver, which Mitya supposed was cohesive if unimaginative.

Standing inside was a woman Mitya  _ had  _ met before, though never in this particular context. She was even more covered up than Mitya, with sleeves of black leather morphing seamlessly into gloves, and her high-heeled boots similarly integrated into her skin-tight pants. It was extremely flattering, and Mitya’s mouth watered even as she froze in shock.

“Madame Whin,” she said. “It is an honor to see you again.”

Her curtsey was a bit clumsy, but certainly better than Whin was used to from common riffraff. Her thin lips were curled in an approving smile when Mitya risked a glance up. Her skin lay somewhere between Mitya’s and Larkspur’s, healthier than pallid white but not quite rich brown, and her black hair was pulled into an unforgiving bun.

“And it is my pleasure to see you,” she replied. And then held out one gloved hand for a kiss.

Mitya obliged, making eye contact as she lipped over the soft leather. Ruby eyes curved in amusement. Mitya wasn’t sure what race she got that coloration from, as she appeared to be human, but it was pretty nonetheless.

“Strip,” she ordered. Her laugh when Mitya obeyed and revealed the rope harness already tied on underneath was unrestrained and beautiful. “You never cease to surprise, do you?”

“Nor do you,” Mitya replied. “I did not know you worked with your girls.”

“Not normally. I was hoping to strike a deal tonight, however, and I always wear my best to business meetings.”

“A deal? With… me?”

“And others.” The glove Mitya had kissed grasped her jaw hard enough to hurt. “You turned me down, the last time I asked you to dance for me, but I don’t suppose you’ve reconsidered?”

“I will dance tonight, but if you mean for your shop, I am afraid I must still decline.”

Squeezing, Whin forced Mitya’s jaw open and then pressed her other fingers to her tongue to silence her. “Why don’t we see if I can change your mind?”

Certainly she did her best. Mitya was bloodied, by the end of it, stained in the very thing she’d tried so hard to clean herself of mere hours ago. Her thighs might very well be graced by even more scars before the end of the month, and she was glad for it, but it was hardly enough to change her mind about her profession. She didn’t seek to arouse, and to dance in the same spot, day after day, made her feel confined just thinking about it.

“I am sorry,” Mitya said, when she had caught her breath at last. “But the answer is still no.”

Madame Whin swung a riding crop around her finger in an absentminded circle. “It is no matter, I didn’t have much hope. However, I have to ask how you became acquainted with my competitor’s girls.”

“Your competitor’s girls?” Mitya always felt half a step behind when it came to beautiful people talking to her, these days.

“Larkspur,” she said, by way of an answer.

For a moment it felt like the world stopped.

Explanation came easily, when Whin realized Mitya truly didn’t know. Larkspur worked for The Drake, a pimp as known for mistreating his girls as Whin was known for her iron fist. His brothel was close by, and the most profitable in the city, firmly keeping The Willow Switch in second place. He had been who she’d met with earlier that night, and she didn’t exactly welcome his presence. Upon hearing exactly why Larkspur was always covered in bruises, however, Mitya began to formulate a plan she thought Larkspur, Whin, and this Drake might  _ all _ find agreeable.

First, however, Mitya had something to ask Larkspur.

“Come again,” Madame Whin said, when Mitya dressed to leave again. “You’re always welcome, even if it’s as a customer rather than an employee.”

“Thank you kindly,” Mitya said with another curtsey. “I am certain you will be seeing me soon.”

\---♥---

Two women lazed about in bed on a summer day, and Mitya thought they were pretty enough together to be a painting. Next to Larkspur she was almost corpse-like, a little piece of winter broken off and incongruous, melting beside her lover. That word still felt out of place on her tongue.  _ Lover. _

Larkspur stretched her fingers out, then rubbed the rope marks still on her arm. She was watching Mitya’s raven, half-sitting up when compared to Mitya, who was sprawled on her stomach. “What’s his name?” She asked, after a long while of silence.

“Who?” Mitya genuinely had no idea, and in hindsight, the way Larkspur’s brows furrowed without even looking at her should’ve been a hint that it was the wrong answer.

“Your raven.”

He tilted his head, watching both of them, but didn’t chime in. “Not that he has ever told me.”

“You should name him. It isn’t right to just call him  _ raven.” _

_ Baby or Daisy or Darwin or Bracyn. _ “Why don’t you pick his name?” Surprised, Larkspur actually turned to face her, and Mitya smiled. Her face was somewhat squished on the side that was pressed to the pillow, but she was sure Larkspur still saw. “You are the only person I have ever seen so comfortable around him. It would be fitting.”

Turning back around, Larkspur bit her bottom lip. Her hands found her hair and twirled it around her fingers in a restless motion Mitya would never tire of seeing. Eventually, however, Mitya saw that she was descending into fretting, and so turned to face her scratched-up headboard and nonchalantly said, “Would you like to come back to my old home with me soon?”

“Your old home? From your childhood? But I thought you didn’t remember.”

“Not my childhood so much as my teenaged years. One of the women in the town is pregnant, and Silphium has volunteered my help delivering the baby.”

“This is a ploy to introduce me to Silphium, isn’t it? I told you, Mitya, I can’t. I don’t want to risk embarrassing you in front of your family.”

“And I told you, you won’t embarrass me.”

“But you don’t know everything there is to know about me, and I’m hardly the most typical person. I know you think your family will be accepting, but I’m not worrying without cause, alright? I promise, in the past I’ve made an ass of myself at the worst of times.”

Ghosting her hand over the fresh bruise on her collarbone, Larkspur looked as if she might cry. Mitya pushed her hands under herself and said. “Is this because you work for the Drake?”

“H-how did you find out?” Shock, maybe even a bit of betrayal, had Larkspur’s eyes wide and her entire body angling away from Mitya, as if she would slip from the bed at any moment. A skittish doe, who Mitya had only just released from a trap of her own making. Her hands weren’t gentle enough for wild animals, she accepted that now, but she couldn’t help but want to hold on just a little while longer.

Quickly, Mitya explained, and Larkspur relaxed back down slowly. She ended with, “Silphium would never judge you. She’s treated Drake’s girls, in the past, and she could hardly look down on your profession, considering hers.”

“Still,” Larkspur said. “Still. It isn’t the. It’s not that I’m a whore.” Haltingly, she opened and closed her mouth a few times. Finally she seemed to have given up on whatever concept she couldn’t find the words for, and her shoulders slumped. Her hands fell to her lap, locks of hair still clenched in them. “As long as I work for that man, I can’t face them.”

With something so final, Mitya couldn’t make the offer she’d intended to. Still, she reminded herself in silence of the appointment she’d scheduled, and underlined the date in her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> srry for the late post everyone i was at bronycon finding out what my mom felt like every time i dragged her to anime conventions. how has your weekend been?


	7. Stultify

It dawned  _ hot.  _ The sun would burn Mitya’s skin in moments, and just on the walk over she could feel her cheekbones warming, and knew it would give her a peely, flaky effect in a few days if she neglected to have it healed.

Compared to The Willow Switch, The Dragon’s Nest was gaudy. Brass and fake gems were everywhere, colors bright enough to hurt Mitya’s eyes, like the one time she’d seen Tian Xia fireworks. Luckily she had all the information she needed to breeze past the front, right to a back room with a lounge she gave a dubious look before she sat down. Beside her, she set the heavy leather sack she’d brought.

In a show of power, she supposed, Drake kept her waiting. By the time he came in, Mitya thought his little shop might’ve actually opened its doors for business already.

Graceful legs were her first impression of him. He was easily as attractive as Madame Whin, in a Tian Xia robe and with slitted, blue eyes. His skin was creamy, his hair nearly the same red as Mitya’s, and it was that which had her sitting up a bit straighter on the sapphire lounge. “You’re a kitsune,” she said.

A bodyguard started to step around Drake, but one slender arm held out stopped him. Narrowing his gaze, Drake said, “I wasn’t aware you were acquainted with my kind. We’re quite rare, around here.”

Actually Mitya had  _ no  _ idea why she knew what a kitsune was, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. “I have traveled a lot.”

“Have you?” Drake stepped forward, settling himself in an emerald lounge across from her. He  _ draped,  _ slicker than silk, and his guard looked stiffer than iron in comparison. “In that case, I suppose I should change into something more comfortable.”

Mitya looked away while he grew his fur, elongated his muzzle, shifted his ears to the top of his head. Instead she focused on his guard, who she realized was, ironically, a wyvaran. His scales were a dark grey, and he wore a brown robe much more mild on her eyes than his boss’ riot of colors. He regarded her with distrust in his lavender eyes, and kept his arms crossed.

“Much better,” said Drake. “I prefer to greet my human guests in a guise they might be more comfortable with, but since you already know, I see no reason to constrain myself.”

“Yes,” Mitya agreed. “Now, about your price…?”

“All business, aren’t you?” The ironic echo made Mitya’s jaw clench. “Very well, then. I was wondering if I couldn’t interest you in perhaps a, shall we say, loan, on her contract?”

“Loan.” Mitya’s voice went flat.

“Yes, well. She’s one of my biggest moneymakers, you have to understand.”

“Do I?”

“Allow me to rephrase, then.” Drake steepled his black-nailed fingers. “Your choices are a loan on her contract, or no influence over it at all. She isn’t for sale.”

He really did have a lovely lilting accent, Mitya reflected. Beautiful diction. It was a shame he had such an  _ ugly  _ personality.

“Did your courier not deliver to you the  _ seriousness  _ of my request?” Mitya’s back was probably as straight as the wyvaran’s, now. She felt a hex tingling through her skin, and was suddenly abruptly aware of where her raven waited right outside the window.

Dismissively, Drake waved one hand. “She did, she did. But my girls do not have quite the spine that I do, nor the muscle, so to speak.” The guard snorted. “You will understand if she was a bit too eager to mollify you, yes? She could hardly make meaningful promises on my behalf, given what she is.”

“What she is?”

“No more than your Larkspur,” he said, by way of explanation. “In other words, a whore.”

That was the final straw.

In a moment Mitya’s hair had grown out to an insane length, coiling in the air threateningly. She shot it towards Drake and had him entangled so quickly that it was all he could do to yelp, such a familiar noise. His guard unsheathed a pair of long knives from seemingly thin air, but Mitya yanked Drake close to her before he could attack.

Holding him a full three feet off the ground, Mitya stood. “Allow me to rephrase,” she said, as clearly as she could. “I am here to purchase Larkspur’s contract. I will buy it with gold, or with blood. There will be no loan; there is no third option.”

Drake nodded hurriedly, and Mitya’s hair loosened its loops and allowed him to slip to the floor. He was gone in a flash, straightening his robes and fur primly beside his guard before Mitya could blink. It was a good thing she’d caught him unawares, but he didn’t know just how outclassed she was beginning to suspect she might be.

“Right, then. What was the estimate you were given, again? Add another hundred gold to it. Larkspur is anything but cheap, I think you’ll agree. Quiren, fetch my inks, won’t you?”

Though she bared her teeth, Mitya counted out three hundred gold with no more argument. Larkspur was going to be hers, and damn anyone who thought otherwise.

\---♥---

“Mitya!”

Something  _ slammed  _ into Mitya’s side, sending her stumbling. She was caught around the waist by a pair of thin arms that were deceptively strong, and lifted clear off her feet. As she was spun around, she caught a glance at that dark brown hair with copper highlights, and found herself smiling and laughing along.

“Larkspur, what is it?” She said, putting her hands on Larkspur’s shoulders.

“You, you… you asshole! Why didn’t you tell me?” Larkspur stared up at her, eyes gone even greener with the redness of tears. She looked amazing.

“Tell you what?” Mitya teased.

She was soundly kissed in retaliation, Larkspur’s lips contorting around sobs or smiles every few seconds. When she pulled away, she was about to say something else, but Larkspur beat her to it. “Hemlock.”

“What?” Now Mitya’s confusion was genuine.

“The name for your raven. I thought of one. He’s Hemlock.”

“Hemlock the flower!” He cawed from right over their heads. His claws sank into Mitya’s hair, and he landed on her head, then leaned down and made a kissing sound against Larkspur’s forehead. “Hemlock the poison!”

“Exactly,” she replied, lifting one hand from Mitya’s waist to pet his little head.

They stood in a little interlocking trio for a moment, unashamed despite the broad daylight and the fact that they were embracing in the middle of the street, attracting stares. “Does this mean you will go to Ashwood with me?”

“You asshole,” Larkspur repeated, quieter now. “Of course I will. You didn’t have to go  _ this  _ far, just to get me to go with you, you know.”

Only a quick shake of her head seemed like an appropriate response. “I did not do it because of that,  _ you know.” _

Sighing, Larkspur said, “I know.” And then she kissed Mitya again, which as far as either was concerned was something they should be doing all the time.  _ Could  _ be doing all the time, now that Mitya had done what she should have a long time ago.

\---♥---

Camphor’s wife, Lychnis, was lovely. Her skin was blacker than the darkest night, so deep it almost seemed tinged with blue. Her kinky hair was currently sticking in all kinds of wild directions from how often she’d tossed her head and tugged at her hair. Silphium held her hand, and kneeled on the floor beside the birthing chair she sat in.

Her belly was so full, and the contractions rippling across it fascinated Mitya just as they had the first time she’d seen them. Larkspur and Camphor himself seemed a bit queasy about them, and about the amniotic fluid and blood currently leaking into the tub of sanitized water sitting under her, but Mitya couldn’t help but think this was one of the most amazing sights she would ever see. Sweat shining on the skin of every single person in the room, and still a fire crackled in the hearth.

For just the duration of a dance, Mitya was bringing into the world a kind of wonder that had never existed before, and would never exist again. Each performance was unique, and therefore uniquely beautiful. Silphium did the same thing, each time she helped a woman through labor; it was just that the lives she helped breathe and grow lasted quite a bit longer than the sort of art Mitya made. On average, anyway.

“Take my place,” Silphium said. “I need to get my hands under her.”

Skirts pooling, Mitya did as she said. A black hand clamped onto hers so hard she immediately felt her pinky  _ pop, _ most likely just a broken bone. She ignored it.

“Lychnis, you are doing well,” she said.

Snot bubbles popped when Lychnis snorted. “Should I be flattered when that - fuck! When that comes from the woman my, hff, twice-damned husband slept with?”

“We weren’t married yet,” Camphor said, more bemused than indignant.

“Shut up,” Silphium snapped.

Lychnis and Camphor’s son was born healthy and squalling, beautiful in a way only babies were. Raw and bloody like a fresh cut of meat. Silphium handed him to Lychnis when he was still streaked with gore, then went about ensuring the afterbirth went smoothly. Most women screamed during this portion, as well, but Lychnis hardly seemed to notice.

“He’s wonderful,” she breathed, and she had never looked so happy, not even on her wedding day. Mitya was reminded all over again why pregnant women were said to glow.

“Can I…” Camphor stepped forward hesitantly, as though he hadn’t had a hand in bringing this tiny person to life.

Easily enough, his wife handed him over, then she slumped back in the chair. “I need to sleep. When will all this rushing about end?”

Silphium stood up and wiped her cheeks with a cloth. “Just another minute, have patience.”

They got her situated in bed as soon as they could, a new straw mattress but the same sweet, sun-warmed smell that Mitya remembered from all those years ago. Camphor was busy cooing over his son, and Silphium nearly dragged him from the room in her impatience to get him cleaned. Larkspur hovered around them nervously, wanting to hold the baby but too afraid to ask. This gave Mitya and Lychnis a moment of privacy, and it was all Lychnis needed to catch Mitya’s hand again.

“I wanted to thank you,” she said, softly. “For giving my husband to me.”

“I did not give him to anyone,” said Mitya. “He was never mine.”

Self deprecation entered Lychnis’ voice, then. “He used to think I was boring, you know. Country boy wanted some kind of adventurous girl to take him far away from his everyday life. I think you convinced him to give up on that.”

“It wasn’t intentional.”

“Even still.” Lychnis made herself more comfortable in her woolen blankets. “Go out there and make sure he doesn’t drop my son on his head, please.”

“I’m sure Silphium is doing a perfectly good job of that on her own,” Mitya soothed, but did as she was told nonetheless.

She exited to find that Silphium had a shark-like grin on her face, Camphor was smirking, and Larkspur was blushing darker than she had in Mitya’s memory. “What did I miss?”

“All I was saying,” said Silphium, which was enough to make Mitya nervous. “Was that I think Larkspur shouldn’t tell Hawthorn  _ too  _ much about what you guys get up to. Bondage is all well and good, but if the old lady actually knows anything about it and starts to give you  _ pointers,  _ I will actually die of secondhand embarrassment.”

Groaning, Larkspur covered her face. Mitya sniffed and said, “How do you know we engage in bondage of any kind?”

“So you don’t?” Camphor snorted. “I don’t think your tastes have changed  _ that  _ much.”

“We only had sex  _ one time,” _ Mitya replied, while Silphium guffawed.

She thought perhaps that day was one of the best of her life, even if part of it consisted of discussing  _ very _ child inappropriate things literally over the head of a newborn baby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes when good things happen to bad people it feels unfair. Sometimes when good things happen to bad people it feels like, damn, if only they'd realized - this is what could happen if I learned, if I changed, if I chose to be good instead. Sometimes when good things happen to bad people it's just because the bad things happened offscreen and only the DM knows for sure what they were.
> 
> IDK if all of that is to say that this is the calm before the storm, but I do know Mitya doesn't have a happy ending (yet).


	8. Shibboleth

“Are you sure?” Larkspur asked, and her voice shook, but Mitya had heard it shake many times before. And so she nodded, then huffed when Larkspur repeated again, “Are you  _ sure?” _

“As sure as I was last week, and last month, and five minutes ago,” Mitya said.

Both of them were naked, which was not unusual. What  _ was _ unusual was that Larkspur wasn’t to be the one submitting, today. Mitya had asked to be marked, and not in the way the girls at The Willow Switch so often did. Something more permanent. Something that showed devotion, or ownership, and felt symmetrical for reasons Mitya couldn’t understand.

“But… where should I…” It wasn’t often that Larkspur was lost for words.

“Wherever feels right,” said Mitya. Like she had said eight times already.

Light touches brushed her shoulder, which Mitya easily rolled. She tilted her head, to allow Larkspur access to her neck, and sighed when she felt Larkspur stroke her scar there. These light touches were all Larkspur had managed, today, and for about half of them her hands were shaking. For all, they were colder than they should be, but Mitya hadn’t backed down.

An exchange of pain. That was what Mitya had asked for. Each time she got Larkspur under her, Mitya left her permanently changed. Better. Closer to perfection, because Larkspur was already  _ so close,  _ and each time she felt pain Mitya felt like maybe. She wouldn’t need any more. She was already a work of art, and to see her become  _ more  _ was the single most fulfilling thing she’d ever spent time towards, even more so than embroidering a new dress. Even more so than helping Silphium with a delivery. Even more so than dancing.

Trembling, shaking, even fear. Those were normal parts of hurting Larkspur, but so was the praise. Mitya told Larkspur exactly what she was thinking, in those moments, how amazed Mitya was that a being on this earth could so perfectly embody everything she treasured. How Larkspur was unparallelled and beloved.

Wasn’t that a balance? Hadn’t Mitya earned a little bit of beauty, of her own? She wanted to match Larkspur, as best she could. She wanted Larkspur to be the one to make her match.

Those fingertips slipped down to trace her ribs, pressing in just enough to feel her bone through a soft layer of fat and healthy, if scarred, skin. She lifted her arm, curved her back, but no matter how she tried to entice Larkspur did nothing to hurt her, didn’t indicate that she was going to use one of her new knives or her nails or her teeth.

_ Teeth,  _ Mitya hoped, but she wasn’t going to influence Larkspur’s decision on that.

“Could you bend over?” Larkspur asked softly.

Easy enough to comply with something so simple. Mitya was beginning to think she’d asked Larkspur for something  _ harder,  _ but didn’t that make it better? Beauty through suffering,  _ earned  _ via the struggle.

Kisses were pressed to the small of her back, and Mitya hummed happily. She felt Larkspur’s lips curve in a smile, and then part. Rather than bite down on either side of Mitya’s spine, however, she moved to bite Mitya’s left hip. Her teeth sank in just enough to bruise, at first, but when Mitya pressed into her she properly bore down.

Blood rushed out, leaking from Larkspur’s mouth copiously to slick Mitya’s skin. It would stain her sheets, she knew, but if she had her wish then scars would be staining her body too, and the memory would be dear in all of its reminders. She thought that would be it, the bone-deep relaxation hitting her while pain crawled down her leg and tempted her to straighten it, but then Larkspur unlatched and moved to her right.

Bit down, again, and left Mitya with four crescents in the perfect imprint of teeth that had only ever belonged to Larkspur. Surprise made Mitya cry out, but delight was what had her turning to kiss Larkspur hard.

Her lover gave as good as she got, hands holding onto Mitya’s hips and digging into the fresh wounds. Mitya licked blood from her cheeks, her teeth, and her fingers slipped in it when they went to touch Larkspur’s neck. Pulling back, Mitya was about to thank Larkspur, when.

She hesitated. She  _ looked. _

Larkspur was horrified. Mitya didn’t know  _ why,  _ just that she knew that expression. It was only ever directed at Larkspur herself, and Mitya had no doubt it was the same now, but. Usually, she could understand, if not empathize with the reasons. Now, she had  _ no idea,  _ and it scared her.

“What is wrong?” She asked, holding Larkspur’s face in her hands. In response Larkspur released her hips, lifted her hands behind Mitya’s head and shifted her gaze to them. Her fingers must’ve been covered in Mitya’s blood, but. Mitya had asked for that. Mitya was happy about that. What was wrong?

What was wrong?

Was she wrong?

\---♥---

“If you were to make a noose of your hair and hang me by it, whose neck do you think would give out first? Yours, or mine?”

The question came from the tree beside Mitya’s, and when she turned her head, she saw Larkspur dressed in clothing quite unlike anything she’d worn as long as Mitya had known her. Her breeches were clearly tailored for a man, and her coat was long enough to brush her ankles. She wore a dashing cap and an uncharacteristic grin on her face.

“I would bet yours, because your neck is so much scrawnier,” Larkspur teased. “But doesn’t your magic minimize the strain on you? So maybe it would be mine.”

Frowning, Mitya replied, “Didn’t I ask you that question, first?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Months ago. I must have, I was thinking about it so much.”

Someone shouted beneath them, and then there was a rumbling noise. Larkspur held a finger to her lips, then pointed below. Mitya followed her line of sight to a group of men, all of them dressed in monk’s clothing, heaving rocks across stripped logs towards a clearing. They were building something, though what, Mitya couldn’t imagine.

“It’s a temple,” said Larkspur. “A cursed one.”

“Who do they worship?” Mitya felt like she should know, but the answer eluded her. That, too, was odd; more often she had  _ answers _ to questions she didn’t know she had ever asked.

“That’s the curse.”

“The god is the curse?”

“Their god isn’t a curse, exactly, but he hardly wants a temple. So, a curse.”

Head aching, Mitya looked back to the men. They seemed so… purposeful. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to.” A hand clapped on her shoulder, and Mitya jumped. When had Larkspur made her way to her tree? “All we need to do is obey him.  _ We’re _ the curse.”

She smiled. Mitya liked the sound of that. It had the old, familiar feeling of a pair of well-worn boots, broken in but not yet worn out. Or perhaps a childhood stuffed animal, not particularly useful but comforting and harmless. Though harmless was hardly what she was going to be.

“On three,” said Larkspur. “Remember, leave none alive. One, two,” her hair grew long in time with Mitya’s, “Three!”

Fire and ice, they descended, and the last thing Mitya saw was her hair pressing into a man’s head through his nostrils and ears, worming around his eyeballs into his sockets to infest his mind in rivulets, in roots, to tear it asunder. She could almost feel its jelly-like consistency  _ squishing  _ against her and yielding to her will. This was how it should be -

And then she woke up.

She remembered this one, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to. It had been months since she’d last seen Larkspur. Months since she’d gotten home to find her bed empty save for a note, which simply read,  _ I’m sorry. _ She still wasn’t sure what for.

Only the memory of her neighbors slamming on their shared wall irately kept Mitya from screaming again as she had then. Nightmares and flowers. She couldn’t escape them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to everyone who reads this thing all the way to the end!!! Tell me about your dnd player characters in the comments, maybe I'll write something, who knows. Is anyone reading this still? Hewwo?


End file.
